Of Sins and Friends

For those of you not yet privy to the rants and babblings of my Facebook posts, I shall recap briefly the debacle of Saturday morning’s horrors. Complete to my husband’s knowledge, understanding, and supposed support, I have been dieting for many moons in effort to shed
twenty pounds that snuck up and adhered to my unwitting self over the last two years. I had, of recent weeks, begun to succeed in my quest. But upon waking this Saturday morn, I found a large display case of croissants set next to the 7 bottles of vitamins and supplements I habitually partake of at the start of my day. The temptation was excruciating and deepened by the call of orange marmalade I heard echoing from the confines of the fridge not 3 feet away.

I ranted, and received back-up support in the form of FB friends suggesting alternate scenarios that both inflamed my desire for the croissant (one suggestion of pairing it with wine was especially delectable...) and encouraged me to refrain from indulging.

Somewhere in the depths of my shaken soul, I found the courage to walk away from the sinful croissants. I ate my supplements, drank my protein, and then – just to laugh in the face of the terror brought on by those buttery delights- I did a workout. I even skipped my Saturday beer lunch in favor of a healthier sandwich and green tea. That should bring everyone up-to-date.

But then...THEN I accepted a dinner invitation from friends Wayne and Alison Seay, which was to be my undoing. Full of the heady confidence of a diet-gone-right for a change, I pulled my husband out of the doghouse I’d sent him to and herded my already-birthday-partied, fully-sugared children into our rickety vehicle and drove down the country road to the lovely couple’s very clean home.

Entering the home, my hackles immediately rose when I smelled something divine wafting from the kitchen. Upon investigation, I found the source of the aroma, and was much relieved to discover it was a ham roasting in the oven. Ham is protein. Good! Mrs. Seay proceeded to place a salad-bar-sized buffet of fresh fruits and vegetables on the table and suggested we dig in. I smiled. Excellent! I could certainly do that! I ate. And was, in fact, enjoying my carrot sticks when the first of two things happened.

Mr. Seay offered me a beer.

Worry not, kind-hearted readers! I had prepared for this encounter, and in fact, delighted in accepting the proffered treat. It had already been written into the calorie-intake expectations of my day. A frosty beer goes quite well with crunchy vegetables and nature’s sweet fruits, thank you very much. They are the very tastes of summer. And as if God Himself approved, the gray clouds parted and sunshine dappled the newly-sown fields of the quaint, historic farm that surrounded us. I nodded. Yes! It is as God intended. We were there to celebrate The Seays’ successful completion of the rituals and traditions of working the land. I lifted my beer to the heavens in salutation, and tapped it to my husband’s and Mr. Seay’s in commemoration of a job well done.

We chatted merrily, the way good friends do in such gatherings of like minds and simple pleasures. As testament to our jolly good cheer, the five children we had between us were handed beverages laced with more sugar than they should have in a month’s allotment and then sent them forth to the yards to play while we conversed of all things that tickled our fancies.

And then the second thing happened.

Mrs. Seay ducked into the kitchen and returned with a steaming pot clasped between her heavily mittened hands. She set it upon the table and lifted the lid. Like a dog that has happened upon a coiled rattlesnake, I jumped back with a yelp. The cheesy dip oozed over the edges of the little pot, crisped brown where it had slipped down the porcelain side. I watched from across the table as Mr. and Mrs. Seay and my husband in turn dipped chips into the gooey mess and devoured it. In abject horror, I could feel my body moving closer...closer still...to the wicked pot, until—without a coherent thought—I snatched a chip from the bowl, dug it deep into the sinful
glop, and stuffed into my mouth. A halleluiah chorus erupted in the confines of my skull, drowning out the clanging of the bells that might have warned me of what was about to happen.

I reached for another.

And then another.

It was completely beyond my control at this point. From the moment it had first slid past my teeth and made love to my tongue, I knew that cheese dip and I were meant to be together – no matter how wrong it was. I was hopelessly in lust. There would be no turning back.

I wasn’t sure of who was responsible for my reckless stroll to the dark side. Was it Mrs. Seay, who had placed the temptation before me with a suggestion and a wink? Or could it be Mr. Seay who was said to be the night’s chef, and by a reasonable leap in logic, the probable concoctor of the evils that befell me yesterday eve? I could not say. All I knew for certain was that I could not
possibly be held accountable for my actions from that point forward. I had been thoroughly and masterfully seduced. Anything was now possible. Helpless in the face of such unholy persuasion,
I could only hope to make it through the evening unpounded, or in the very least, only lightly pounded.

I was beginning to sense a conspiracy—a plot against me and my dreams of reacquiring a fit and youthful body. My husband was certainly out to get me (let us not too quickly forget the debacle of the croissants earlier in the day...), and now I feared the beloved Seays were party to the task of unhinging me.

I would need a plan.

So, I accepted, with an award-winning smile, the delicious dinner set before me—the aforementioned ham (so tender it fell apart with a touch of my fork), a fresh and crunchy salad (which was certainly there as a decoy to their true intent...), and a mound of cheesy hash brown
casserole (prompting yet another mouth-watering, irresistible affair for my tongue)—and I drank thirstily of the endless deluge of screwdrivers meant to unarm me of my common sense.

And I schemed.

I used their own tools against them, I did. My tongue, now weakened with their liquors and longing with insatiable passion for more trysts with the cheesy outlaws lurking in the ancient
appliances of the nearby kitchen, began to wag.

I had a plan.

The plan was not without dire risks to my person, but I was willing to throw myself at the mercy of the Lord of Weightloss, in order to fulfill my destiny, if it must be so. I said a prayer to the fat-burning supplements held within me, tossed down a few extra vitamins, and carried out my own devious plot. I was forced to use the last weapon in my arsenal.

I would talk them to death.

They would be begging for leniency by the time I was through with them, mark my words. But alas! They had ruthlessly delivered alluring enticements upon my unsuspecting naivety, so there could be no mercy for such formidable opponents.

I drank, ate, and be-merried long into the night. Shadows fell, and then full darkness. More guests came and after sussing out their innocence in the plot against me, I allowed myself to enjoy their company. I used their good will to my own gains, furthering the longishness of
the conversation by propagating topics interesting to the newcomers and then watched in great pleasure as they turned it as stealthy weapons upon the proprietors of the household.

The children, some in the naked splendor of their choosing, were tucked—all five—into the bed spaces available, and the merriment of the adults continued uninterrupted beyond the reaches of their dreams.

Did we get louder as the night progressed? Yes, I believe we did. Did the cheer reach new levels of hilarity as moments became minutes and minutes morphed into hours? Indeed, it did. And when the yawns became more frequent and the eyelids got heavy, I cranked my conversation skills to new heights. Was I sorry it was necessary? Perhaps. But they had brought it upon themselves, this wily couple and my own Mr. Lalonde. Sabotaging my weight loss efforts—when I’d so recently begun to succeed—was almost completely unforgiveable. One day I may be able to forgive them their evil deeds, but only after they’d suffered.

We talked—of family and friends, vacations, music and games...of our silly children and our funnish daydreams. Oh, how I was enjoying myself—and they too, it seems. These were good friends for us, and I did sincerely hope, perchance, they would feel the same.

But as night became morning, and the hours became wee, my husband got sleepy, and I sensed The Seays also wished for dreams.

Mr. Seay’s eyelids kept slamming rock bottom and ricocheting back up again in an ever-slowing pattern, but Mrs. Seay kept up with me, giggle-for-giggle, tale-for-tale. I admired greatly her wit, her charm...her endurance. It was as intoxicating as the blubber-inducing delicacies she had spent an eve foisting upon me.

My own husband impressed me much as well. I came to the realization that in 15 years of knowing him, the only time I had seen him standing erect in the dewy hours before dawn would have been the night I woke him in the throes of labor for our firstborn, and again the night the
third of our progeny had decided to make our acquaintance. (Incidentally, these are two of the very 3 culprits that sent me spiraling into the 9-year fat-bearing sentence I have currently been in the process of appealing...) My husband, Mr. Lalonde, appeared cheerful enough—in fact, he contributed regularly to the conversation of remembrance at hand—but I knew by the shade of red rimming his eyes and the blinky rapport his eyelids were now syncing with Mr. Seay’s that it was only a matter of time before he’d paid his due.

I suppressed the desire to cackle maniacally and rub my hands in glee.

I had successfully exacted my revenge.

As the lovely couple—whom I hoped would one day understand why I had to do it, and find it within themselves to grant my pardon—lit the way and held the doors, Mr. Lalonde and myself transferred our offspring from the little house on the farm to the rusty contraption we affectionately called our vehicle.

We waved a final goodnight as The Seays slipped into comas before our very eyes, and as we bumped along the beaten road we’d come in on, I knew that they had experienced a lesson of their own.

I think it’s safe to assume they won’t make the same mistake again for a very, very long time.

And about five minutes later, at just past 4am, as I tucked Mr. Lalonde and the children snug in their beds, I had another glorious epiphany about the hard-fought conflicts of my evening—a spoil to keep from the battles, if you will.

In a matter of days (on June 11th, in fact), I will be a wizened 42 years of age. That’s...

...5 years older than Mr. Lalonde, the romantically gifted and soulfully devoted French Charming I robbed from the cradle once upon a time in a land far, far away...

...7 years older than Mrs. Seay, the ethereal and gorgeous hostess of the moveable home (the canvas upon which she expresses her art...) and conspiring kitchen sidekick whose charm and reciprocal love of a giggle will endear her to me forevermore...

...and a full 9 years older than Mr. Seay, the mischievous, youthful sprite and chief diet-undoer whose vast knowledge of all things intriguing shall enrapture me until the end of time along the path of my own quest for Knowing-It-All –and-trying-most-too.

My spoils?

I....I had outlasted them all!!! (and without a hangover in sight!)

It had all been worth it in the end.

So, my body may engage me in the timeless battles of hormones and belly fat, and the years may stalk me until I am spewed from the forbidden Forest of Youth.

But my sense of adventure is intact and my love of a life fully lived has been utterly unconquerable.

My Spirit of Youth prevails!!

I remain undefeated in the face of adversity.